Tricks of the trade, come here reason. Poisoning kung fu ninjas, citrus oranges-r-us. Dickin’ it up down here and if you can’t figure that out I oughta nail you a sucker punch to the soul. Sticky fingerprints are good people; I’d be the first to hang out with em’. The clouds gather mouthfuls, they mesmerize with lingering shadows. Kissing the flame, the fire tickles my teeth in extraordinary fashion.
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I know you crave that quick dip to contentment, like forcing a fading firefly to flash to exhaustion. But I ask you now, is it truly worth it? Put life jackets on swollen ankles and they float, they do. Attach some Velcro to garage doors and you got yerself an outlet. Nice hands, feet. It might take a tad longer on yer face though. Fuck. Now I smell like kickers and cooking spatulas. Fog farts due me in; they’re treating me to a four-course smoke session.
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Learning the ropes of laughter, I have the power to stop. But of course I refuse. Hit it, suck it, smash it, repeat. Singing to keep warmth, boxing words in an overwhelming vocabulary of slurs and unpunctuated sentences. Shit baby, we’ll fight to six rounds, some pushing seven. An orgasm of inspiration, my bones turn tingly. RIP for now, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Apples and tomatoes nuke bananas, don’t they? Haha, yes they do. We’re good, yes we are.